The Treasure of Maria Mamoun

by Michelle Chalfoun

  Maria gave up and went to the kitchen for some dinner. As usual, the refrigerator was full of gourmet leftovers Hattie had cooked far too much of. She helped herself to some chicken pie, and was working on a slice of zucchini bread when her mother burst through the door, talking as if she and Maria were already in mid-conversation.

  “Mr. Ironwall says you have a real interest in history.” Celeste dumped a cardboard box on the table. “Apparently you are the only one who appreciates Ironwall Estate and all it has to offer. He wants to know if you would like to borrow some old books he has.”

  Maria opened the box. A plume of dust wafted up and made her sneeze. The top book had a gray bloom of mildew on its plain maroon cover. Prominent Island Families, 1500–1900. She looked at the books beneath—a history of the Wampanoag tribe, a book on Historic Vessels and Their Captains, a glossy compendium of the films of Hollywood’s Golden Age, and a thesaurus.

  “Frank spent all afternoon in the library, finding them. Mr. Ironwall’s library, not the town’s. He has an entire room filled with books!” Celeste stripped off her scrubs and changed into sweats as she spoke. “Pretend you like them, even if they are really boring.”

  A knock on the door interrupted Celeste. She looked at Maria with raised eyebrows. Maria shrugged. She hadn’t expected any visitors. Her mother opened the door and there stood Paolo, holding a big canvas rucksack and a large dead fish wrapped in wax paper.

  “You better get this on ice,” he said, handing the fish to Celeste. She looked at the wet package for a moment and then dumped it in the kitchen sink. Then she looked at her hands and excused herself to the bathroom.

  “You’ve been gone for two days!” Maria told him.

  “I couldn’t help it,” Paolo said.

  “I’ve got to show you something,” Maria said. She meant the boat. Though it wasn’t as bad as it had been at first, he had to see, as soon as possible, all the work that remained.

  “I got to show you something first.” He swung the rucksack to the floor.

  “Do you want some zucchini bread?” Celeste came back in, wiping her hands. “Your mother made it, it’s very good.”

  “No, thanks, Ms. Mamoun. Frank’s waiting for me in the truck.”

  “Invite him in, too.”

  “No, we’ve got to be going. Gram’s expecting us. I just wanted to drop this off for Maria.” Paolo nodded at the rucksack.

  “What is it?” Celeste asked warily. “Not more fish, I hope.”

  “Just books,” Paolo said. “You know—summer school?”

  “Oh yes, how is it going?” Celeste moved to the sink, stared at the fish, and then turned her back to it.

  “Really well.” Paolo smiled. “We’re doing a social studies project on the history of fire escapes.” He winked in a way that only Maria could see.

  Maria grabbed the bag. It didn’t feel or look at all like books. It was so heavy she almost dropped it.

  “Can you help me carry it upstairs?” she said to Paolo. “It’s really heavy—”

  Paolo grabbed one end and she followed with the other. They dumped it on the floor beside her bed.

  “What the heck is this?” She opened it up and brought out a handful of rope.

  “Shh! Your fire escape. I kept thinking about it while I was fishing. It was a great idea you had. See?” He pulled out a bit more to show her.

  “It’s a rope ladder,” Maria whispered.

  “Yeah! I made it. You can tie it to your bed—as long as you put your bed right up against the wall under the window—and climb down!”

  “Oh,” Maria said.

  “You don’t seem very excited,” Paolo said. “I worked really hard on it.”

  “It’s not that,” Maria said. “It’s the boat. Someone trashed it. I think Taylor.”

  Paolo’s face reddened. “What do you mean trashed it? Can it still sail? Did he mess with the hull?”

  “The hull is fine. He didn’t sink it or anything. But he undid all the rigging and messed with everything else.” Maria felt tears prick her eyes. She shook her head. “I’ve been working on it the whole time you’ve been gone … but I don’t know if we’ll be ready.”

  “We have to be.”

  “How? You haven’t seen it. It’s awful.”

  “We’ll just work till it’s done. I’ll get started tomorrow while you’re walking Brutus.”

  Maria shook her head. “And what if he comes back and tears it all up again, right before we go? I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I gave away our secret to him.”

  Paolo put his hands awkwardly on her shoulders and bent a little so he was looking directly into her eyes. “You’re not an idiot. You’re the smartest girl I know. And the nicest. The only thing wrong with you is that you just didn’t realize what a jerk that guy could be.” He paused and stared over her shoulder. “But that gives me an idea.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe if we tell him he can come, he’ll stop messing with us.”

  “But we aren’t going to let him, are we?” Maria asked. “I mean, you said—”

  Celeste popped her head into the attic and interrupted. “Frank’s cleaning the fish after all.”

  Paolo and Maria turned at the same time, and he dropped his hands from her shoulders.

  * * *

  After Frank and Paolo left, Celeste and Maria sat on the sofa eating bizir, salted pumpkin seeds, sent by Tante.

  Frank had taken care of the bluefish for Celeste, and now it sat chilling in the freezer, safely wrapped in cellophane. He’d even taken the head and tail away and left a recipe Celeste could use if Hattie ever stopped cooking for them.

  “Let us play Go Fish.” Celeste dealt hands for the game. “In honor of our first bluefish.”

  Maria sat on the opposite end and took up her cards.

  Celeste took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly as she did when she had something important to say.

  “What?” Maria started putting her cards into pairs.

  “I don’t want to worry you,” Celeste finally said, “but Mr. Ironwall is not doing as well as you hoped.”

  “He didn’t seem sick when I visited him this morning.” Maria kept her eyes carefully on her cards. But he had been unusually cranky.

  “He didn’t want to worry you,” Celeste said. “And sometimes it happens fast.”

  “Quickly. Mr. Ironwall says it’s the adverb. Fast is an adjective.” Maria put down a pair of twos. She could feel her mother looking at her, but she didn’t look back.

  “Fine, Maria. It happened quickly. Right now, his ankles are swollen and his breathing sounds bad. We’ve got him on diuretics, but if they don’t work by tomorrow, I can make no promises.”

  Swollen ankles. Bad breathing. Diuretics. Her mother had told her about these symptoms before, with other patients. Something to do with the heart not pumping hard enough.

  “Is he going to be okay?” Maria met her mother’s eyes.

  “Well, chérie, we’re doing the best we can.” Celeste folded her cards into her lap. “I don’t like that he’s giving things away, though. Like the books he sent you.”

  “Why don’t you just take him to the hospital?” Maria asked. “Tonight. Call an ambulance.”

  “Joanne thinks the one on the mainland is better. The emergency room here, at least in the summer, is overrun with tourists. The only thing is, we need to decide before he gets too bad—”

  “Then why don’t you just take him now? Isn’t there some kind of rescue helicopter or something? Why are you waiting?” Maria felt her face getting hot.

  “Calm down, Maria.” Celeste fixed her with a stern look. “It is not a Medivac emergency at this time. If he needs to go, he can go in an ambulance on the ferry. But he doesn’t want to leave the house, and we can’t make him go against his will. You need consent. Sometimes people get tired, and they don’t want to keep trying.”

  Maria threw her cards down. “Are you serious? Are you saying what I think you’r
e saying?”

  “Maria, habibti, it’s going to be okay,” Celeste said in her soothing-mommy voice. “No matter what happens, it will be okay.”

  Maria stood. “It will not! It is not okay for him to die! You have to take him to the hospital. If you won’t make him go, I will! I’ll go talk to him right now!” She headed for the door.

  “Maria! I absolutely forbid it!”

  Celeste stood. She moved to block Maria. Maria feinted right, then went left. Her mother grabbed her from behind. Though she wasn’t much taller, Celeste was still stronger, and she whipped Maria around to face her.

  “You don’t get it!” Maria yelled.

  “No! You don’t get it!” Celeste yelled back, louder. She hardly ever yelled, but the few times she had were frightening. “This is not up to you!”

  “Who is it up to then?” Maria said. “Joanne? If it were up to her, he’d never even get out of bed! She gave up on him a long time ago.”

  Celeste closed her eyes and took a breath. “No. It is not up to Joanne either. It is up to Mr. Ironwall. He gets to decide. We don’t get to decide for him.”

  “Can I at least talk to him? Can I see him?” Her voice came out scratchy and choked. She should be able to see him after the dog walk as she always did. “I still have to walk Brutus, right? No matter what?”

  And if she got to talk to Mr. Ironwall she could convince him to go to the hospital. There was medicine there that could save him.

  “If he is well enough,” Celeste said. “We’ll see.”

  * * *

  Later that night, Maria couldn’t sleep. She lay in bed gazing at the carved beams above her head. Though she could barely see them in the dark, she had the carvings memorized. JM 1689—Captain Jean Murdefer. Her privateer. But she still did not know who FH 1718 or SI 1812 was or what 1230 meant … or anything else, it seemed. Too much was going on, and it was all too confusing.

  She turned her mother’s words over in her head—people get tired and don’t want to keep trying. That wasn’t fair. People shouldn’t get to stop trying just because they want to. Not if other people care about them.

  Maybe he’d just been alone so long he didn’t realize that was a rule.

  He just needed her to explain it to him.

  29

  THE SAME OR WORSE

  The next morning, Maria stood at the front window waiting for Frank. When she saw his stony face, her stomach sank.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions, habibti,” Celeste said.

  “You only say habibti when you’re really worried.” Maria stared out the window.

  “I’ll find out how Mr. Ironwall is doing when I see him,” Celeste said. “How about you maybe bring Brutus to his room as usual, and if he is doing well, you come in?”

  “But he isn’t doing well,” Maria said. “Or Frank wouldn’t look so serious.”

  “We don’t know that.” Celeste opened the door to Frank and the dog.

  “He’s the same,” Frank said, by way of greeting. “Or worse.”

  Maria didn’t stay to hear the rest. She grabbed Brutus’s leash and ran him down the driveway. The sooner he was walked, the sooner she could get to Mr. Ironwall. They sprinted through the break in the rose hedge, over the dunes, and onto the beach. She was surprised to see Paolo waiting for her. He was throwing stones into the water, skipping them two, three, four times.

  “I already checked out the boat.” He skipped one last stone and fell into step beside her. Brutus ran in and out of the waves, looking expectantly up at Maria. She’d forgotten to bring a tennis ball.

  “Just go swim.” She tossed a piece of driftwood into the water. He trotted in, pointed his nose toward the floating stick, and paddled steadily toward it.

  Paolo was still talking. “It’s really not so bad. I mean, they didn’t destroy anything—and we have enough line left over on the spool to rerig that jib.”

  Maria stared at him. She hadn’t even thought of the boat since her mother told her about Mr. Ironwall.

  “Are you okay?” Paolo asked.

  “No.” Maria suddenly realized she wasn’t okay. “I’m really worried about Mr. Ironwall.”

  “Yeah, he’s pretty sick, my mom told me,” Paolo said.

  “I have to get him to go to the hospital,” Maria said. “As soon as I’m done walking Brutus, I’m going to make my mom let me see him. I can make him go. He’ll listen to me.”

  Brutus was swimming about in circles. She wished he’d get out and take care of business so the walk could end.

  “Maria?” Paolo said her name as if he’d already said it a few times. “Will you?” He touched her arm.

  “Will I what?”

  “Will you come with me to see Taylor?”

  Maria headed toward the water. “Come on, Brutus. Go already.”

  Prize stick in his teeth, the dog dutifully came out, shook, and peed on a hunk of seaweed.

  “But we’re not really going to take him … we’re just going to let him think he’s coming. We’ll tell him a different date.” Paolo trotted along behind her. “You have to come with me. I’m banned from the yacht club, and that’s where he works. Maria!”

  Maria was too focused on Brutus to pay attention to Paolo. Now the dumb dog was eating crab legs. The gulls took the meat from the bodies and left the legs rotting on the beach, and Brutus loved them.

  “No crab cookies!” Maria hooked up the leash and pulled him away. “We have to get going!”

  Paolo jogged after them. “Maria, are you going to help me or what?”

  Brutus was finally circling a promising patch of wrack in the way he did right before he went number two. Maria waited till he squatted, then she turned back to Paolo. “What do you want?”

  “Just meet me in the kitchen for lunch, okay? I’ll tell you then.” He sounded exasperated.

  “We always meet in the kitchen for lunch,” Maria said.

  “Whatever. I’m going to go work on the Privateer.”

  As she watched Paolo heading for the boat, Maria realized she had no idea what he’d been talking about.

  “Finally!”

  She scooped the dog’s mess into a plastic bag. “We have to go see Mr. Ironwall!” She dragged the insulted-looking animal toward the house.

  * * *

  Maria wouldn’t take no for an answer. Celeste met her at Mr. Ironwall’s bedroom door and tried to take Brutus without letting her in.

  “He’s exhausted, chérie,” Celeste whispered. “Just breathing makes him tired. If he has to talk he will only get worse, heaven forbid.”

  “He doesn’t have to talk. He just has to listen,” Maria said.

  “Let her—!” Mr. Ironwall called. Then he began coughing.

  “See?” Celeste hissed. She let her daughter in anyhow.

  Maria waited by the door until Mr. Ironwall’s coughing stopped. Celeste scurried forward to replace the oxygen mask that he had pushed off. He wheezed with each inhale, but he looked alert enough. He patted the bedspread beside him.

  Maria sat on the bed by his feet. “Don’t talk. My mom says it makes you tired.”

  He made a fist of his hand on the coverlet and bobbed it up and down.

  “That means yes,” Celeste told her.

  “What’s no?” Maria asked.

  Mr. Ironwall made a beak out of his thumb and first two fingers and tapped them together.

  “How are you doing?” Maria asked him. Then she winced—that wasn’t a yes or no question. Still, he nodded his hand yes, and she took it to mean good.

  “It’s okay, Mama,” Maria said. “You can take a break.”

  Celeste looked at her warily, but Mr. Ironwall nodded his hand.

  “Okay, chérie. But I’m going to leave my walkie-talkie. I’ll just be down in the kitchen with Hattie, so you can call me there—it is already on the right channel. Just push that button on the side and talk into it. And don’t come down to get me, call me and I will come up. I don’t want Mr. Ironwall alone for one s
econd. Compris?”

  “I understand,” Maria said. She looked at Mr. Ironwall. He nodded his hand again.

  She waited till her mother was gone a few seconds before she said, “Mama says you won’t go to the hospital. Is that true?”

  His hand nodded.

  “You’re really sick this time though, aren’t you?”

  His hand made the tapping beak. No.

  “Don’t lie to me. I know you’re sick,” Maria said. “And you’re not going to get better unless you go to the mainland hospital and get the best help you can.”

  He tapped the beak, no.

  “But why not? Don’t you want to get better?”

  He rolled his eyes toward the window.

  “Listen.” She took his hand in hers. It felt cool and dry and fragile. “I know you’re sick of being sick. But we need you. I need you. I don’t want to go back to the city ever. So if you give up and leave us high and dry you’re just being selfish. You are!”

  Mr. Ironwall looked at her and wheezed. He pulled the mask from his face and Maria saw he was smiling.

  “And your insistence”—he wheezed—“that I get better”—wheeze—“so you can stay here”—another wheeze—“is not selfish?”

  “Well, I guess it kind of is,” Maria admitted. “But I don’t care!”

  Brutus heard her raised voice and looked up from his spot on the carpet.

  “And Brutus needs you, too!” She reached for Mr. Ironwall’s mask. “Now put this back on or my mom’ll kill me.”

  He pushed her hand away and kept the mask off. “Why”—he began his halting, wheezing talk again—“would a young girl … want to stay … in this rotting carcass … of a place?”

  She looked steadily at him. “Well, I love the cottage, and all the weird, old-timey things in it. I love your dog. I love the beach and the things I find on our walks. I like bringing things to you and you explaining them to me, and you telling me old Island stories … Put your mask on!” She took the mask firmly from him and placed it back over his nose and mouth. “I just like hanging out with you.” She felt suddenly shy. “You know what I mean.”

  He tapped his fingers no.